Fighting to die
by Freakinamask
Summary: Jazz Ashton left her life story on a norsefire poster. The story of Jazz, Cass and Vic was told from Jazz's point of view. But what was it like for Cass. A look at the life and thoughts of a girl shot in an abandoned house for refusing to beg.


Sometimes I want to die.

Not all the time.

But a lot of the time I do.

That's part of the reason I take such stupid risks.

I have very little to lose.

Since Vic.

Vic.

Vic.

Vic.

Oh Vic.

The day he disappeared I cryed for hours.

I loved him so much.

He was so strong.

So brave.

He never gave in. Never surendered to the apathy. The indifference so many have.

He felt every emotion. He held on to what happiness he could find.

For a long time after he died. I felt nothing.

Or at least I never showed it.

My sister was all I had and I fought for her.

I was strong for her.

I started fighting properly.

I walked around in the day. If anyone bothered us I killed them.

It was just an old bike chain but oh God...

What a weapon.

I felt nothing for the fingermen I killed.

At first they were the only ones but...

Later on...

An old shop-keeper who saw my face,

A woman who attempted to stop me in the street.

It was dark and we were alone.

I was afraid.

Jazz never found out about those two. As far as she knew I only killed people who deserved it. I don't want her to know. I want her to be proud of me.

I used to tell he about the line between cowardice and common sense.

I am proud to say I never crossed that line.

But there are other lines.

The lines between selfishness and survival. The line between a girl trying to survive and a murderer. The line between a what is necessary and what is wrong. The line that seperates us from them. The line between a freedom fighter and a terrorist.

The line between justice and revenge.

The line between killing for revenge and killing for the sake of it.

And those lines I did cross.

And I'm sorry for that.

If Vic was still around I'd have told him.

But he isn't.

All I have left is his Koran.

And it's beautiful.

But it doesn't make me innocent.

I've done bad things.

I have many regrets.

I don't think I'm an inherantly bad person. I don't believe anyone is inherantly bad.

It's what we do that defines us. Good or bad. It's what we do to ourselves and what others do to us that make us who we are.

And I have done bad things.

Do those things define me?

I don't know.

I've done good things to.

Our defining acts are our strenght. Our dignity. Our courage. They make us who we are.

We must never apologise because to do so is to apologise for who we are.

My name is Cassandra Ashton.

I die aged nineteen.

We were staying in an old house. Schedualed for demolition.

I figured it would be safe.

It wasn't.

They came in with guns. I attacked them. Told Jazz to run.

She did.

I'd become quite adept at dodging bullets. The trick is to get the gun away from the guy in question. And if you can't do that then at least shove the muzzle of the gun away from you.

It was going rather well. I killed seven of them.

Then I made a mistake.

I jumped on one of the fingermen.

I was skinny malnourished.

I simply didn't have the necessary weight to pull off a move like that.

Didn't stop me trying.

So when he twisted around and shot me in the stomach. I should have expected it.

It was still a shock.

I felt the bullet penatrate.

It burned. Like a spear of fire in my side.

I fell and I couldn't believe it.

Somewhere along the line I'd convinced myelf I was ready for death. That I'd accepted it.

I hadn't.

You are never prepared. You may not be afraid. You may not regret. But you're never ready.

I guess I was still hanging onto the story-book notion that I'd always get lucky.

In the stories sometimes the supporting character or love interest gets killed. But the hero survives.

I didn't.

The man who'd shot me. He tried to make me beg.

I refused.

He shot me again. In the leg.

It hurt, I screamed.

If I'd begged I'd probably have survived. They'd have dragged me off to a doctor. Then a detainment camp.

But that would have simply been prolonging the ineviable.

To beg woud have been like apologising.

And I never apologise.

I had many defining points in my life.

This was one of them.

They shot me in the head.

Then they dragged me to a dump and buried me.

No marker no funeral.

To them I was just a piece of meat.

I wish I could say I don't hate them.

That I can see the bigger picture and I don't hate the little people.

But that would be a lie.

It's the little people. The ones who follow order that make it all possible.

And I hate them.

My life didn't flash before my eyes. I'm glad. There are some things I don't want to remember.

I was bitter and angry. For a long time I let that consume me.

It was more than my sister. More than Vic.

More than anything.

I got over it a little. Not completely. But by the time of my death it wasn't the thing that defined my life.

My sister did that.

I loved her.

I loved Vic.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I forgot that.

But I don't regret my actions.

My actions define me.

I am what I do.

Never apologise for them. Because to do so is to apologise for who you are.

My death defines me.

It's getting dark now.

The pain from the bullets doesn't hurt any more.

_Vic..._

A/N I know I said that unsung was a oneshot but well...

I wanted to explore Cass some more. I may also go into greater depth about Vic. I hope you enjoy this and she was very hard to kill. This didn't turn out how I expected. I guess that Cass wasn't quite what Jazz percieved her to be.

I don't own V for Vendetta. I own Cass Jazz, Vic and their stories though.

Please review. Reviews are love.


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